his words.
“Or Charlie Sheen?” Britta proposed, and the girls giggled.
“This was not the case,” Rick clarified. “Named after the great adventurer Charles Lindbergh, of course.”
“That is not true; I know for a fact that I am named after my grandfather Charles Putnam Flint.” Charles set the record straight.
“Get back to the Cheyenne question, or my head will explode,” Britta said with a groan.
“And we don’t want that, as I have floor sweeping duties,” Charles replied. “One: celebrity names. Two is the search for unusual names that are as far away as possible from Peter, Paul, and Mary, to give your kid more of a unique identity. Actually, and this is where the discussion becomes interesting: Cheyenne is not common but also not rare in the United States. About a thousand kids are named Cheyenne every year. For girl names it ranks around three hundred.”
Agnes laughed. “Now there is something even worse, a boy called Cheyenne.”
Charles pointed his fork at Agnes. “Your name, for example, is much rarer, not even in the first one thousand popular names.” Fork at Britta. “Also a rare name, but even varied as Brittany”—a groan from Britta—“Cheyenne still leads the pack.” He pointed the fork at himself. “However, there is hope: Charles is ranked number eight, Richard is number seven. But the winner clearly is”—he pointed to the empty plate—“Isabella, top five!”
“Mom’s the winner,” Dana cried.
The gang shared a laugh.
Rick shook his head. Charles’s capacity for unusual knowledge was crazy. Where did he read this?
“Dad, what is your distraction story?” Agnes asked. “If it isn’t Cheyenne and her sexy mom.”
“We have a new client coming to the shipyard tomorrow. Not just any client.”
“Do we need to pull it out of your nose, Dad?” Charles demanded.
“Out of your nose, yes!” Dana agreed.
“That client is none other than Josh Hancock.”
“No way!” Britta burst out, and everyone looked at her because she had lost her cool. She turned beet-red and hid under her hair again.
“Way!” Rick said. “I have no idea what’s it’s about, but he’s coming in person.”
“We’ll believe it when we see it!” Agnes said and started clearing the dishes.
“I’ll bring proof. Selfie with star.”
“And an autograph, please,” Charles said rather formally. “By the way, more people die nowadays taking selfies than being killed by sharks.”
“Any people killed by sharks while taking selfies?” Britta asked.
“No data available,” Charles said earnestly, and Dana shrieked at the wit of her big brother.
The rest of the evening was the usual mad dash of checking homework, running through Spanish vocabulary cards with Britta, putting Dana to bed, reading to Dana, singing to Dana, saying final “nighty-nighty” to Dana, returning to Dana, retrieving Barbie for Dana, retrieving security blankets four and five, final-final “nighty-nighty” followed by a final-final visit to the potty, and a last monster-check under the bed with a Maglite. Then it was cleaning up the house, throwing the various collected clothing into the washer to be ready for the dryer in two hours, preparing the breakfast table.
Agnes, who had spent most of the evening in her room, came down during Jimmy Fallon’s monologue.
“Hi, pumpkin.” Rick put his arm around her. “Ready for the cultural highlight?”
“Hi, Dadster. I give myself a few minutes. I am beat.”
“We should talk college ideas over the weekend,” Rick said. “Got any further idea about where you want to go?” Agnes was in the last stretch of her junior year, and the panicky parents of her classmates were already heavily invested in college evaluations.
“UCal or Caltech is my preferred choice for now. I want to stay close to you guys,” Agnes said, pulling up her legs to her chest, head on knees, watching TV without really looking. “Be home on the weekends.”
“We
“Or Charlie Sheen?” Britta proposed, and the girls giggled.
“This was not the case,” Rick clarified. “Named after the great adventurer Charles Lindbergh, of course.”
“That is not true; I know for a fact that I am named after my grandfather Charles Putnam Flint.” Charles set the record straight.
“Get back to the Cheyenne question, or my head will explode,” Britta said with a groan.
“And we don’t want that, as I have floor sweeping duties,” Charles replied. “One: celebrity names. Two is the search for unusual names that are as far away as possible from Peter, Paul, and Mary, to give your kid more of a unique identity. Actually, and this is where the discussion becomes interesting: Cheyenne is not common but also not rare in the United States. About a thousand kids are named Cheyenne every year. For girl names it ranks around three hundred.”
Agnes laughed. “Now there is something even worse, a boy called Cheyenne.”
Charles pointed his fork at Agnes. “Your name, for example, is much rarer, not even in the first one thousand popular names.” Fork at Britta. “Also a rare name, but even varied as Brittany”—a groan from Britta—“Cheyenne still leads the pack.” He pointed the fork at himself. “However, there is hope: Charles is ranked number eight, Richard is number seven. But the winner clearly is”—he pointed to the empty plate—“Isabella, top five!”
“Mom’s the winner,” Dana cried.
The gang shared a laugh.
Rick shook his head. Charles’s capacity for unusual knowledge was crazy. Where did he read this?
“Dad, what is your distraction story?” Agnes asked. “If it isn’t Cheyenne and her sexy mom.”
“We have a new client coming to the shipyard tomorrow. Not just any client.”
“Do we need to pull it out of your nose, Dad?” Charles demanded.
“Out of your nose, yes!” Dana agreed.
“That client is none other than Josh Hancock.”
“No way!” Britta burst out, and everyone looked at her because she had lost her cool. She turned beet-red and hid under her hair again.
“Way!” Rick said. “I have no idea what’s it’s about, but he’s coming in person.”
“We’ll believe it when we see it!” Agnes said and started clearing the dishes.
“I’ll bring proof. Selfie with star.”
“And an autograph, please,” Charles said rather formally. “By the way, more people die nowadays taking selfies than being killed by sharks.”
“Any people killed by sharks while taking selfies?” Britta asked.
“No data available,” Charles said earnestly, and Dana shrieked at the wit of her big brother.
The rest of the evening was the usual mad dash of checking homework, running through Spanish vocabulary cards with Britta, putting Dana to bed, reading to Dana, singing to Dana, saying final “nighty-nighty” to Dana, returning to Dana, retrieving Barbie for Dana, retrieving security blankets four and five, final-final “nighty-nighty” followed by a final-final visit to the potty, and a last monster-check under the bed with a Maglite. Then it was cleaning up the house, throwing the various collected clothing into the washer to be ready for the dryer in two hours, preparing the breakfast table.
Agnes, who had spent most of the evening in her room, came down during Jimmy Fallon’s monologue.
“Hi, pumpkin.” Rick put his arm around her. “Ready for the cultural highlight?”
“Hi, Dadster. I give myself a few minutes. I am beat.”
“We should talk college ideas over the weekend,” Rick said. “Got any further idea about where you want to go?” Agnes was in the last stretch of her junior year, and the panicky parents of her classmates were already heavily invested in college evaluations.
“UCal or Caltech is my preferred choice for now. I want to stay close to you guys,” Agnes said, pulling up her legs to her chest, head on knees, watching TV without really looking. “Be home on the weekends.”
“We
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